


Wolf Like Me

by nightships



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Battle Couple, Captain Swan AU Week 2016, F/M, Teen Wolf AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2018-07-24 16:53:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7515872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightships/pseuds/nightships
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teen Wolf AU for CS AU Week. Emma and Killian are werewolves, used to scraping their survival together alone by the light of the moon. A pack of two isn’t much of a pack at all, but she’s felt stronger every moon she’s endured beside him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Dream me oh dreamer_  
down to the floor  
open my hands and let them  
weave onto yours

Reminder that [evil--isnt--born](http://evil--isnt--born.tumblr.com) wrote a perfect companion piece to this with me and you should read it immediately. It’s [here.](http://evil--isnt--born.tumblr.com/post/147476134609/invisible-scars)

They streak through the night, twin blurs flying over hills and slipping between trees so fluidly the branches barely quake. Most of the time it’s tough to say which one of them is faster — that depends on the phase of the moon, on who’s angrier, on whether the thing chasing them is a monster or a memory.

Tonight it’s unequivocally Emma. The muscles of her shoulders flex and retract at a blinding pace, enough to hurt if it weren’t for the adrenaline the moon brings. A dim part of her is aware she’ll feel it later, when she’s not walking around on all fours, but right now she’s chasing a stronger instinct than the one that recognizes pain. The urge to run has never quite left her system, but then isn’t that why she’s here?

Her eyes flick back at a black blur, invisible except for the shards of moonlight that fall on him when they pass a break in the tree line and the blue eyes that always seem to be on her before she looks at him. Emma pushes herself harder, wondering whether tonight is one of the nights that he lets her take the lead or if she’s genuinely running faster. She’s still getting used to how it feels to run alongside someone. A pack of two isn’t much of a pack at all, but she’s felt stronger every moon she’s endured beside him. Emma isn’t sure she’ll like that feeling later, either.

In the two or three seconds her attention is off the path in front of her, Emma loses concentration, and it’s this mistake that sends her crashing into a bend of earth she would have otherwise seen. The exposed rock face juts out sharp, scraping a tear in her side from the bottom of her shoulder to her hip. Pain erupts like fireworks behind her eyes, sending her tumbling right into the tightest corner of the bend. She can hear Killian running for a quarter mile, oblivious, before he senses her absence and turns back.

There’s worry blooming in his stance, even if he won’t let it show on his face as he approaches. He’s standing up in front of her, two blue human eyes replacing the wolf’s stare she’d seen a moment ago. The pain has turned her human too — God, does it sting like a bitch — but she still refuses to focus on that. She needs to bring her walls up high and fast, strong enough that he can’t stare through her.

But then she fights that instinct, too, because he is her pack.

“We’re a half-mile from the house.” His voice is rough from disuse, from running ten miles at near-sprint at her side, and his accent falls thick between the syllables he speaks. “I thought you knew that bend was there.”

“I did know it was there,” she hisses. Emma refuses to put up with this kind of scolding, not when the fabric of her shirt is soaking up so much blood. She tries to stand once and falters, pressing a fist into the ground when her side screams protest. She’s supposed to be stronger than this, she’s supposed to have control, especially when he’s here. Every stab of pain is just a reminder that she can’t handle what she ought to be able to, and it’s a bit late for her to start down that trail of thought. “I didn’t see it.”

“Can you stand?”

“Yes,” she lies, staggering to her feet. She feels dizzy even as her skin begins to knit itself back together, but Emma refuses to let that stop her. “Why didn’t you take the trail back the way we came?”

“I wasn’t taking any trail. I was following you,” he snaps back, refusing to let her put this on him. Emma half-wishes for a fight, knowing the anger will help her turn again, but the thought tastes sour the moment it forms in her mind. She won’t blame him for this; blaming him never takes the sting away like she wants it to.

She stays where she is when he steps closer, well aware the both of them can smell her blood in the air. His face is as impossible to read as it was before, when he was all dark fur and silence, and he might as well have changed back again the way he sniffs the air.

“Don’t do that,” she warns him, watching his hand lower back down to his side. “I can walk myself back.”

* * *

It takes longer than she wants it to, so Emma doesn’t look at the clock when she gets in. She’s half-healed, well-acquainted to the burning ache in her side that seems to be traveling down to her hipbone, more than ready for his questions when she walks through the door. He’ll want to know why she really missed the bend, what was on her mind for the miles that she tore ahead in front of him.

On full moons, he’ll argue, she usually lets him run at her side, gauging her pace and her control over her direction. They map a course by day and test it three nights in a row, Killian prompting her to change at different intervals of the run every time. She’d been doing so well up until now, he’ll say, and that’ll trigger even more worry, because he’s right. She has been better, stronger, more in control of her emotions when he pushes her past her comfort zone. Emma fights her way through the answers she doesn’t want to give him as she inspects his medicine cabinet, coming up empty in the search for cotton balls and hydrogen peroxide. It’s all for show, of course. Emma knows the reason they aren’t in the cabinet is because he has them, because he wants her to talk to him. She pretends to search for them as long as she can just to be difficult, only giving in because she knows the sooner she finds him the sooner she can sit down.

But he doesn’t ask her to talk when she first walks in. Killian only moves off the edge of the bar to have her sit on it, dutifully ignoring the way a hiss breaks past her teeth when she slides atop the granite. He finds himself a barstool that has seen better days and sits as well, dousing several cotton balls at once.

“Lift your shirt up,” he says, quieter than before, his voice carefully free of emotion. Emma peels the soaked shirt from her body; the blood drying against her ribs leaves her skin regretfully, and the fabric unfortunate enough to have rested against the wound itself fights even harder to keep its place. Ignoring the shake in her fingers, Emma tears it away, flinging the entire thing into some dark corner of the room and leaving her clad in her sports bra and shorts.

“This is going to hurt,” he informs her, swiping away at her side. Hurt is the understatement of the century — Emma’s human nails tear into the skin of her palms as she fights back a whine of pain — but at least he’s getting the pieces of rubble out of her side. She pictures herself taking an hour-long shower, running up his water bill while she washes blood out from beneath her fingernails, and only leaves the daydream when she feels the last inch of skin healing. The scar that would have lingered for months disappears before she can run her fingers along its grooves, and then the quiet bears down on her, reminding her who’s sitting on a barstool between her knees.

“I’m going to shower,” she informs him, before he can try and ask the questions that have already made their way to his eyes. He lets her slip away from his hands again.

* * *

Emma doesn’t make her shower a long one, despite all the intentions she’d felt before. The absence of pain has left her with a restlessness the heat of the water can’t wash away, and she has a feeling it is his fault this time. She always feels a bit of what he does whether either of them want to or not, and she’s learned it’s easier to deal with if she doesn’t avoid him entirely. She meets him at the window that faces out over the city and toward the forest, water from her hair plinking down onto her feet and the floor.

“It’s my birthday today,” she mutters, not quite explaining why she’s starting here. It’s an anniversary of loss and pain the world’s inflicted on her, of the figurative bite of a mother that didn’t seem to want her and the literal bite of an alpha who abandoned her, too. She says it all on the last exhaled syllable of her words, and he doesn’t press her for more. He turns to his side, fingers sliding up under her clean shirt so they skim along the place where her newest scar would have been, and the last of the fight in her ebbs away. The moon falls behind a cloud that isn’t quite opaque enough to block it entirely, but she still closes her eyes at the softness of the dark. She always forgets the peace that he can bring, when he feels like it. She always forgets to let him until she feels she has no other choice, no matter how often he shows her otherwise.

“It’s an early morning tomorrow,” he reminds her, and it’s a promise to leave this discussion on the windowsill until she wants to pick it back up again. “Let’s sleep.”

Emma doesn’t fight the instinct to follow him beneath dark sheets and let him tug her to him. She doesn’t hesitate when he presses his cool hand against the middle of her back. She doesn’t move an inch when his legs tangle with hers in the dark — not in the slightest. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian finds something unexpected in the woods while searching for Emma.

The woods of Maine are restless tonight. Sharp tree limbs hiss and creak as the wind tangles them together, intent on plucking the few remaining leaves from their branches. Killian’s breath curls away to the north as it shifts, but that’s not what has his hair standing on end. He focuses his sight and stills where he stands, waiting to recognize the scent of someone new as a beam of light cuts through the forest. 

A pair of lost hikers had earned a spot on the evening news last week for a backpacking trip that almost turned fatal. They’d gotten dangerously close to the cliffside because of the cloud cover, and only a faint glimpse of moonlight had steered them back toward safety. It’d been near-dawn when they stumbled onto the roadside, blue-tinged and dehydrated, and the reporter had spent a full two minutes regaling the city with safety tips for traveling in cold weather. Whoever’s joining him in this part of the forest  _clearly_  missed the broadcast.

Killian turns to head back the way he’d come, intent on avoiding company, but an acrid, leathery smell washes across the misty glade, one a gale couldn’t hope to stifle. He stiffens as the flashlight beam falls on his face, intentionally obscuring his view.

“Are you aware you’re trespassing on private park land, Mr. Jones?” The voice of Robert Gold calls clearly over the wind, announcing his presence as if he’s expecting a crowd. The light’s still in his eyes, but there’s no mistaking its glimmer in the oily crocodile skin of his boots. 

Killian doesn’t reply, but Gold seems more than happy to carry on conversation with him despite the blistering cold of the wind.

“Nothing to say? Then I suppose you won’t mind lending me your ear a moment. Last week, I overheard Sidney Glass refer to Miss Swan as a bitch for refusing to provide a quote on behalf of the police. I’m sure you can imagine my surprise when I discovered that she actually  _is_  one.”

A beat passes between them. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but I’m certain that you do. You forget that I’ve made quite the study of your kind. I know that you can smell it on each other after the full moon.” He smirks, moving in closer still, like he has all the time in the world.

“Could you smell it when you first met her?” He asks softly, gentle as a lover’s whisper. "Is that why you’ve come tonight? To teach her the route you think you’ve made impossible to track? To keep her safe?”

Another two feet and he could press the barrel of his gun to Killian’s chest if he wanted to, but Gold is in no rush to stop the theatrics now that he’s caught him alone. The twist in his voice is all but overflowing with mirth, proud to see that Killian can barely control his anger.

“Consider this a warning to you and your new friend,” Gold says knowingly, angling his light up so both of them can see each other. Gone is the playful, simpering voice he’d used before. A human heart beats inside his chest, Killian can hear it, but a predator stands before him.

“Take care to watch your step the next time you choose to go wandering through the woods. The sheriff might lose more than just her shining reputation...” he kicks his boot out suddenly, inches from Killian’s foot, and reveals a waiting coyote trap. It’s obvious that there are more where it came from, that he’s here for more than conversation.  

Killian lurches forward, but a shot rips through his side before he can fully shift. It’s too hot to be a regular bullet, searing his flesh on impact. He lunges in the direction of Gold and his rifle, intent on causing the coward an ounce of the pain he’s inflicted. Dark, primal satisfaction rushes through him as he tears through Gold’s cheek, working to keep his claws embedded in the flesh. 

An angry cry rips out of him, but not because of the pain. He’s fired another shot, missing Killian and hitting a nearby tree instead. The branch it strikes cracks on impact, swaying heavily under its own weight before snapping free and tumbling down to them. Killian grabs a fistful of Gold’s jacket and blindly shoves him toward it. The coyote trap snaps as Gold’s rifle falls on its plate, snuffing out the light in a single bite.

But when the leaves and branches stop shaking, he’s giggling, almost triumphant. Killian falters as he looks at the trap and Gold again, suddenly seeing what he couldn’t see before.

_Emma._

He doesn’t hesitate as he turns away. There’s a price to pay for what he’s done,  but right now he doesn’t care. He lets his wolf take over entirely, working to outrun the sound of Gold’s laughter and the smell of his blood on the wind.   
  


* * *

 

Rain rolls in over the fog, pushing his senses into overdrive. Killian curses to himself as he runs, feet barely touching the ground for how fast he’s moving. He’s covered miles of the forest in search of her with nothing but memory to guide him, and now the storm’s made even  _that_  unusable. He can’t stand it, this blindness that’s been forced upon him. 

And Emma...he has to stop himself from imagining the effect it has on her. 

Lightning cracks dangerously close to the treetops, enough that he smells the electric heat of it carving through the wood before it even falls. If it weren’t for the rain the whole thing would ignite, but it only topples to the ground. His side burns as the forest floor shakes, and for a second he can almost hear Gold laughing again. 

He runs faster. 

Traffic lights and cars from the city proper paint the clouds pale orange as he skims the mountainside overlooking the city proper. Something deep in him, something he hasn’t felt in well over a decade, knows she’s not down there. His wolf can feel it like the chill seeping into his bones, but the human side of him can only focus on all of the places she  _isn’t._

He forces himself to go home, to see if calling her will elicit a response. He’d requested she keep her GPS settings on for night runs, and outright demanded she start charging her phone above forty percent after nearly losing her during last month’s full moon. She’d promptly told him she wasn’t a child in need of looking after, her green eyes challenging him to say otherwise. 

It was terrifying, not being alone, but most nights Emma scared him more. 

He’s moving through the last of the trees when he sees a light turn on upstairs. It’s the lamp in his bedroom; he knows it just by the stuttering flicker of the bulb, but relief doesn’t come like he thinks it will. He feels fire in his blood instead. 

It takes effort to take the porch steps on two feet instead of four, to keep from tearing the door off its frame, to leave the banister free of claw marks. He manages to get as far as the bedroom without saying a word, and it’s just as well, because he can hear the shower running. With nowhere for his anger to go, he paces through the house, locking every door and closing every set of blinds until he’s back in his bedroom again. He’s just crossing the threshold when the bathroom door opens. Steam billows out, revealing Emma.

“Don’t worry,” she tells him offhandedly, focused on toweling her hair dry. “I left you some hot water.” His lack of a response catches her attention, and her eyes widen when she takes him in. “What’s wrong?”

“Where in the hell were you?”

Emma drops the towel, noticing the bloodstained gash in his shirt. “What?” She repeats. “I was out running with you. What happened?”

“Gold was out setting traps for me...for us,” he emphasizes, pacing closer. He can smell his soap on her skin. The two scents are staggering compared to the way the rain muted the forest. “He must have seen you.”

“I didn’t see anybody! No one’s out in the forest this late except us.” 

“I must have dreamt him shooting me in the side, then,” he answers, twisting savagely toward her so she can see it for herself. It’s healing, but slowly, a mark of the wolfsbane that had skated across his ribs. She reaches out as he draws her eyes to it, slowly moving toward him.

“That needs attention.”

“It can wait until you bloody well tell me where you’ve been,” Killian snaps, ducking away from her fingertips. He braces at the searing pain the motion brings, gritting his teeth and bringing his voice down low. “He knows about you.”

“He’s bluffing,” she tells him flatly. “You’re the only person I’ve seen all night. I didn’t see any traps, and I didn’t see Gold. You need to calm down. Nothing happened.”

He laughs humorlessly. “Have you ever been shot at?”

“I’m the sheriff. Of course I’ve been-”

“Not like this,” he interrupts, pacing back in front of her. He towers over Emma, incensed by the affronted look in her eyes. “This isn’t some carjacker looking for a way out of an arrest. Gold is a hunter. He’s known about me, and now he knows about you.”

“He can’t prove it,” she insists. Uncertainty is hovering in her voice, just audible behind her usual brand of stubbornness, but he hears it regardless. 

“Proof’s not going to matter when it’s you he’s found in the middle of the bleeding woods,” he snarls. “Don’t stand there and tell me that nothing happened when he’s out setting traps.”

“I know how to handle myself,” she hisses, a harsh reminder of the past she has yet to explain. 

“It could have been you.“ 

The words billow up from his lungs in a single breath, uncontrollable and fiery, because he can’t think of another way to make her understand. “It could have been you he ran into, and I wouldn’t have had a goddamn  _idea_  until it was too late.”

“But it wasn’t!” She grabs for his hand, forcing his fingers around her wrist. Emma holds it aloft between them, forcing him to acknowledge the feel of her pulse under her skin. Her eyes are bright from the shower and their argument, and they’re searing into his, trying to figure out why he’s pushing this point so hard. 

Then a charge passes between them. Sudden understanding washes over her, and she loosens her grip. 

“It wasn’t me, Killian. I’m right here.”

His fingers dive into her hair as he tugs her forward, catching her waist with his other arm to stop her stumbling backward from the force of the kiss. She trips in the towel on the floor anyway and her arm flies up to his side to steady them, accidentally pressing into his wound. Killian winces at the pain, but he shakes his head before she can pull away to apologize. Right now he needs to breathe her in, to abandon the scent of the rain and Gold with the scent of her alive, safe in his arms. 

Emma is still warm from her shower, almost hot compared to the rain dripping out of his own hair. His senses are on overload with her this close, unable to settle on any one sensation radiating out from her touch. After searching for so long in the dark, he’s fully intent on memorizing her.

She brings her hands up to his shoulders, tilting her head to the side to guide him closer as his fingers weave into her hair. He chases right after her, fiercely sliding his mouth over hers, but relief pours from every inch of him she traces over. Emma works the fervor out of his skin as she slides her hand up the columns of his spine, reminding him that she’s not the one he’s angry with. When he finally manages to drag his lips from hers, he’s panting, shuddering as she coaxes calm back into him.

She’s waiting for him to look at her, stubborn even when he does meet her gaze, but it’s not just attention she wants. It’s permission, oddly enough. He doesn’t say anything and she moves, intent on the mark Gold left behind. Her pulse hitches when her fingers slip under his shirt, skimming the gash that still hasn’t quite knit itself back together, and his own stutters when she settles her hand over his heart.

“I’m not used to this,” she murmurs, her voice almost lost to the rainfall on the roof. “People don’t worry about me.”

“First time for everything,” he manages, the faintest shadow of a smile in his voice. 

He does let her tend to his wound, but by then her hair is dry.    
  


* * *

 

“I know you’re capable,” he tells her later, leaning against the bathroom sink. She’s just tossed the last of the dirty cotton balls into the trash, ridding them of the evidence he was shot to begin with. “I shouldn’t have questioned that. I’m sorry.”

She nods as she hands him a clean shirt, accepting his apology, as well as the knowledge that she matters so much to someone else. To him. It’s no small thing, her recognition. Emma seems to realize it when he does.

“I worry too.” she confesses, glancing down at his side. “About you. I’m not used to that either.”

He wants to tell her that he understands, or that he  _used to_ , but that’s a story for another night. He’s not here to guilt her into shutting herself away the way he did in the years before they crossed paths. He’s content with tucking her hair behind her ear, with tracing the constellations of freckles that dance across her cheeks, with stepping away from the counter and reaching for the hand that’s just cleaned Gold’s blood from beneath his fingernails.

Emma follows him across the mattress like she knows he needs to touch her, like she can tell he’s trying to forget what he left in the forest. Just like before, she snakes her hand beneath his shirt to press her palm to his heart, steadying its rhythm on contact. It’s a reminder of what he has yet to lose - all he  _has_  lost - but her voice pulls him back.

“Try to sleep,” she whispers, eyes already closed. 

With her breath falling softly across his collarbone and her hair tickling his chin, he does.


End file.
